Christmas Spirit
by ALetteredWoman
Summary: Sam buys a box of Christmas decorations at a yard sale. He and Dean decorate the bunker. And then...well, things start to happen. Mysterious and not-quite-right things. (All done, loves! Merry Christmas!)
1. Chapter 1

Sam stepped carefully down the concrete stairs holding the huge box. He had to step carefully, feeling gingerly with a foot before resting his full weight on it, because the box was simply huge. Huge enough that it blocked his view of his own feet...and the nondescript walls gave him no clue as to whether he was at the bottom of the stairs or not, though the doorway to the bunker crept into his vision as a marker.

When he reached the bottom, he fumbled around in the small space, angling the box away from the door, holding it with one hip as he fished in his jeans pocket for the key, pulled it out, and stabbed it into the lock. He twisted the knob, pushed the door open with his chest, and wrangled the box in, angling it back and forth to make it through the door, then dropped it, jingling and jangling, on the landing.

"Dude! What the hell's that?" came Dean's voice from the common room down below. Sam stepped around the box, leaned on the railing, and peered down.

"Christmas!" he answered cheerily.

"Christmas?!" Dean sounded dubious. He was craning his neck, trying to get a look.

Sam reached down, heaved the awkward box up into his arms again, and slowly made his way down the stairs.

"Yup. Yard sale. Some lady was selling off all her old Christmas stuff, so I decided to buy it. We've got plenty of room, and it's about time we tried Christmas decorations here." He waddled forward and dropped the box on one of the old oak tables. Dean moved forward, old gray bathrobe swirling, to watch while Sam popped open the flaps, dug in, and began to haul Christmas items out.

"Lights...snowy village doodad...wreath...another wreath...stuffed elf...fake tree, I think?"

Dean picked up one of the carefully coiled strings of lights, frowned down at it, and began untying the twisty-ties holding it bundled together. "So what brought this on? Not that I disapprove or anything, but, dude, this really isn't your style."

Sam froze, hands halfway out, still holding the box with the artificial tree. He looked down at the remaining decorations, sucked in a deep breath, and said, quietly, "Charlie."

Dean's head jerked toward him. "What?!"

Sam bit his lip, focused on pulling out the tree box. He couldn't look at Dean. "Remember how...how she used to call out 'Merry Christmas!' when we woke her up from a nap...?"

Dean pulled out one of the oak chairs, sat down in it. He looked down at the coil of lights, began slowly pulling it apart to find the plug. "Yeah. I remember," he finally said. His voice cracked a bit.

"Well. Um. This is for Charlie. Because." With that, Sam placed the box of fake tree in the last open space on the table and stood back. He still didn't look at Dean. He remembered the bitterness in his brother's voice as he told him _he_ should be the one on the Hunter's funeral pyre, not Charlie. Talking about her now...well, it was a fraught subject. They hadn't talked about her at all since then.

Dean grunted. Then he stood up, carried the lights over to one of the many outlets they had had to fix to take modern plugs, and plugged the string in. He now had a handful of brightly glowing multi-colored lights that, as he watched, started randomly blinking. It was bright and cheery, and damned if it didn't remind him of Charlie. It hurt. He sighed, turned back to Sam.

"Okay. Yeah. For Charlie." Though he couldn't say it in words, his voice held a kind of peace offering. He knew how much that scene at Charlie's pyre had sliced into Sam, hurt him. "So. Where do we put this damned tree?" he added.

A few hours later, the common room had been transformed. The tree was up (it took some cursing and fiddling to get it right), decked with ornaments and a string of white lights. One wreath had been hung on the outer door of the bunker. Sam had wired the other to the railing of the landing inside. The Christmas village was laid out, complete with soft white fabric representing snow-covered ground, on the common room table they used the least. The silly little stuffed elf perched on the top of the liquor cabinet, guarding their bottles of scotch. Dean had carefully put up the strings of multi-colored lights, outlining the doorways to the common room and the bookcases in the walls.

Sam had tuned in to a Christmas radio station on his phone, plugged it into the speakers. Cheery Christmas carols had accompanied their struggles with the tree: longtime classics, new rock tunes, and songs from the thirties, forties, and fifties.

When Sam finished off the tree with the cheesy plastic star, Dean swung by the liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle and some glasses, and plunked them down on the table. He began to pour, but Sam held out a hand, holding his back.

"Just a minute. Wait here, and don't pour that yet." And he was off at a run, going up the stairs two at a time, and out the door. Within a few minutes, he was back with two bags of groceries. He strode forward, dug in one of the bags, and hauled out a carton of eggnog.

"Gotta have this, or it isn't a real Christmas. Right?"

Dean grimaced and shrugged. "Dude. You're asking _me_? I haven't the foggiest. It's not like we've done this a lot. Uh. Yeah, I guess so?" Sam dropped the carton on the table and headed toward the kitchen with the bags.

He called out, "Just hold on a sec." He soon came back, running his hands through his long hair, pushing it away from his forehead, and plopped down with a sigh in a chair across the table from Dean. He opened the eggnog, carefully poured it into the two glasses, then grabbed the scotch and added some. He stirred them with a spoon he had brought with him, then pushed one of the glasses to Dean. He held up his own, tilting it forward.

"To Charlie. And Christmas."

Dean picked up his own glass, clinked it against Sam's, and responded, "To Charlie. And Christmas." Then he downed a gulp and looked around the common room, smiling slightly. "We done good, I think, Sammy."

Sammy looked around, too, taking another sip. "Yeah. Yeah, I think you're right."


	2. Chapter 2

Something had woken him up. He lay in bed, listening, but there seemed to be nothing out of order. He could barely hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, but nothing else broke the silence.

He lay back down, willing himself back to sleep. A few minutes later, tired of tossing and turning and fighting with himself, he gave up, sat up in the dark, yawned, stretched, and eased his long legs out from under the covers. He stood up in the dark, yawning again, and shuffled his way towards the kitchen. Maybe another eggnog would flip the switch, and he'd be able to sleep again.

For one moment, when he saw the soft light streaming down the hallway of the bunker, the adrenaline pumped through his body. Then, with a stifled chuckle, he relaxed: it was the Christmas lights, nothing more. He walked past the kitchen to the common room, smiling faintly as he stepped in, to be greeted by the twinkling lights. They looked mellower in the darkness, sparkling and dancing and warm.

He started toward the liquor cabinet to grab a glass.

Something in the room was different.

He frowned, scratched the back of his head, looked around, trying to pin it down.

Then he saw it: the stuffed elf, propped up against the church spire in the Christmas village, looming over the houses and the small figures skating on the "pond". The dim lighting threw a shadow across its face, so it looked brooding and dark. Dean must have wandered in here and moved it, positioning it to look like one of his favorite old monster movies. Sam snorted, grabbed the elf, and returned it to its perch on the liquor cabinet, collecting a glass while he was there.

He yawned again, wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stood there a moment, swaying on his feet, as his sleep-muddled mind tried to remember why he was there. Ah. Right. Eggnog. He reached in, pulled it out, poured it, returned the carton, and stared down at his glass, trying to decide if he should shuffle back to the common room for some scotch.

Nah.

He started drinking, heading to the stairs outside. It had been uncommonly warm and dry this winter, so far. A quick gander at the stars would be nice. He made his way up to and out the door, and up the outer concrete stairs, the concrete warm under his bare feet. _Damn. Shouldn't be this warm_ , he thought. _Wonder if it's something to do with The Darkness, or if it's just global warming. "Just."_

He snorted again, leaning back against the railing up top, tilting his head back to gaze up at the sky. Another few gulps of the eggnog and he'd give bed another try-

There was a noise. A rustling. A snort. A clopping sound. Another, louder snort.

Sam froze, carefully looked around for the source of the sounds. Nothing to his left. But...to his right...a shadow, moving. A _big_ shadow. Moving toward him.

He shifted the glass to his left hand, reached behind his back for-damn. No knife, of course, he was in his night clothes, and had become so accustomed to the safety of the bunker that he hadn't even thought about maybe needing a weapon on their doorstep. _Stupid. Damned stupid_ , he chided himself, as he turned to face the whatever-it-was.

The shadow moved closer, growing bigger. Then, with a sigh of relief, he relaxed, the tension melting out of his body.

A horse.

A big, black horse.

What the hell was a horse doing here? Probably got loose from its paddock. Damn. What should he do with it? Just let it wander on? Surely whatever farmer on the outskirts of Lebanon had lost this big fella would be looking for him come morning.

The horse tossed its head, mane flying, just barely visible in the starlight, and minced forward. It tilted its head down towards Sam.

That's when he saw the big, glowing red eyes, surrounded by pale whites.

And the teeth.

The big white teeth, revealed by lips peeled back in a snarl.

They were sharp. Horses weren't supposed to have sharp teeth.

"Holy _shit_!" he yelled. Dropping his glass, he vaulted over the railing he had been leaning on. He landed awkwardly on the stairs and stumbled down, crashing into the door. He yanked it open, darted inside, and slammed it behind him, leaning against it and sucking in gasping breaths.

"What the bloody hell _was_ that thing?!" he asked the empty common room. He got no answer. He paused to regain his breath, let his pounding heart settle down, and finally walked down the inside stairs. "More eggnog. _With_ scotch, this time!" he muttered to himself.

He strode into the kitchen, grabbed the carton of eggnog, and made his way back to the common room, bathed in the gently sparkling lights. He grabbed another glass, splashed scotch into it, and topped it off with the nog. He downed it in two gulps.

Fortified by the drink, he made his way back to his room and pulled his gun out from under his pillow and his knife from its sheath on the bedside table. Staggering slightly, he made his way back outside, climbed the cement stairs once more, and stood looking wildly around for the...creature.

Nothing.

He eased his way to where the horse had been standing, crouched down, searched the dry ground for scuff marks, anything that would prove it had been there.

Nothing. Again.

He stood up, safetied the gun, and stood with his hands on his hips, swinging back and forth, peering into the shrubbery, down the dirt driveway.

Nothing. Well, okay, there was the empty glass he had dropped earlier. He leaned down, snagged it with the fourth finger of the hand holding the knife.

"Hunh," he finally commented to the empty surroundings. He frowned, shrugged and headed back inside. By the time he got back to his bedroom and fell into his bed, he had convinced himself it had just been a particularly vivid dream.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean poured cereal into his bowl, then grabbed the milk and started pouring it. A sour smell assaulted his nose; he drew his head back, grimaced, and then took a cautious sniff direct from the carton.

"Whoof! That's just gross!" He drew his head back again, waving the odor away with one hand. "Dammit," he grumbled, marching over to the sink to send the spoiled milk down the drain. "Just bought the damn thing!" He tossed it into the garbage and opened the fridge, standing in front of it and idly scratching the back of his head as he peered in. "Okay. No cereal today. Omelet. Sounds good." He grabbed the makings and a pan and got ready to cook.

When the omelet was done to perfection, he served himself and wandered into the common room, dropping his plate on the table and looking around. He smiled faintly at the decorations, shaking his head. "Whoever woulda thought Sammy would be all into Christmas all of a sudden?" he asked rhetorically. Scanning the tree, he groaned. Up at the top, perched in front of the cheap plastic star, was the stuffed elf. It looked like it had a branch stuck up its ass. It also looked like it was prepared to pounce on unsuspecting passersby.

"Jeez, Sam." He shook his head. "Don't we have enough critters out in the wild world trying to attack us already?"

He took the elf down (no stick up its ass after all) and immediately gave in to his silly side. He aimed the elf directly at himself, shouting out, "No! Nooooo! Aaagggghhhh!" as he mock attacked himself with it. After a minute of desperate fake struggle, arms pretending to strain to keep the elf's red arms from his throat, he slammed the poor toy onto the table with one hand, the other poised high in the air to stab with an invisible knife, exclaiming triumphantly, "Ha! I've got you now, you demonic fiend!"

A muffled snort made him freeze, and he slid his eyes in the direction it had come from. Sam was leaning against one of the archways leading out, arms crossed and lips twitching, trying not to laugh.

Dean eyed him narrowly, then scooped the elf up from the table, carrying it in a very dignified manner back to the liquor cabinet. "You didn't see that," he muttered darkly.

"Oh, yeah, right...Something going on here? I haven't seen anything!" Sam's attempt to be serious was sabotaged by a snicker as he leaned away from the wall. He ran his hands through his long mahogany hair and headed toward the kitchen.

"There's half a spinach omelet, it's yours," Dean called out as he sat down to actually eat his own. "Made sure your side had most of the rabbit food. No milk, it went bad, like overnight."

Sam was back in moments with his own plate; he sand down into a chair, stretched out his long legs, and popped open the laptop. He typed one-handed while eating, peering at the screen.

"Whatcha lookin' for?" Dean asked idly, scooping up the last bite of omelet.

Sam hunched a shoulder and muttered, "Nothin'"

"Fine. Be that way. I'm heading out. Want anything?"

Sam mumbled something indistinct. Dean waited for him to repeat, but when no further sounds emerged, he shrugged, grabbed his jacket and keys, and dashed up the stairs.

Sam peered after him as the door slammed, looked back at his Google search, which had revealed nothing. The only hits were for a sculpture at the Denver International Airport, dream interpretation pages-which weren't very helpful-and Skyrim. So his red-eyed, sharp-toothed black horse _was_ just a dream. Right? He lifted another forkful of egg and spinach into his mouth, staring sightlessly at the stuffed elf on top of the liquor cabinet.

 _Oh, well. It's a nice distraction from The Darkness and my visions..._

* * *

Sam had spent the day rummaging around in old Men of Letters files, pulling books off shelves, scanning them, then re-shelving them with unnecessary vehemence. Every time Dean tried asking him what was up, Sam dodged the question. Something _was_ up, it was obvious. Hopefully, no more about visions from God about The Cage. Dean shivered every time he thought about that-how could Sam think that God wanted him to talk to Lucifer, of all beings?!

Finally, fed up with the lack of information, Dean grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed up the stairs to the landing, calling out, "I'll be just hanging out on Baby for a while." The only response was an abstracted grunt from his brother, who had his nose in yet another old book. Dean rolled his eyes and strode out the door.

"Looks like it's just you and me, Baby," he said as he hiked his hips up on top of the hood of the car and perched his feet on the bottom of the bumper. It was a clear night, unusually balmy, and the fresh air and beer soon had him feeling better.

So when the girl-woman-walked down the road toward him, he was in a mellow mood. Her movements were fluid, almost like dancing, and she wore something that seemed, in the dim light, to be a billowing tunic with a fringed hem and leggings. The tunic clung to her upper body, outlining lush curves, and the leggings displayed elegant legs. He sat up straighter, interest piqued.

She stopped in front of him, face and eyes obscured by a riotous collection of tight jet black curls that tumbled and fluffed out on all sides of her head, cascading down almost to her waist. He lifted his bottle in greeting.

"Hey."

"Hi," she said. Her voice was husky and warm, and he felt a shiver scuttle down his spine, curl around his groin.

"Name's Dean. And you are...?"

"I'm new around here," she said.

"Ah." She hadn't told him her name. Damn. But, hey, a guy could always make nice anyway, even if the indications were that it wouldn't work out. "Have a seat." He patted Baby's hood beside him. She shifted, tilted her head, shrugged, and sat down beside him without a word. He tilted the beer bottle to her invitingly.

"Beer?"

Her head twisted a bit to look at the bottle, then she reached out a hesitant hand. Her fingers brushed his as she took the bottle from him, and he shivered again. She lifted the bottle to her nose, sniffed, held it out to look at it again, then, with another shrug, she lifted it to her lips and gulped it down.

And down.

And down. Dean lifted his eyebrows and side-eyed her.

Then she lifted it up again, almost upright, holding it to her mouth. Her hair slid down her torso with her movement. When nothing more came out, she sighed, handed it back to him, and stood back up.

"I thank you for the...beer." She lifted a hand to her curls, as if to push them back, then dropped it. "Call me Siobhan. Perhaps I will see you again." He could just barely see a smile curving her lips. Then she turned away, tunic swirling, and walked back the way she had come, curls bouncing and hips swaying.

Dean stared after her as she faded into the darkness, mouth open. Then he snapped it shut, shook his head, and said quietly, "Damn. Real mystery woman, aren't you?" He held the bottle up, peered at it in the dim light. His shoulders slumped. "Welp. Guess If I want more, I'll have to go back in."

When he went back in, the lights were out, the illumination coming from the strings of Christmas lights and the tree. _Looks like Sam's headed off to bed. Guess I'll do the same thing._

He chucked the empty bottle in the kitchen trash and sauntered down the hallway to his own room, thinking about Siobhan and her mysterious appearance.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been two days since his encounter with the black horse, and nothing had happened since. The first day he had spent obsessively researching, finding nothing. No horse had appeared, either in his dreams or outside, last night. This morning he happily shrugged it all off. A dream, just a dream.

He strolled into the kitchen, yawning and running his hands through his hair, and made a beeline for the fridge. Their stuffed elf was perched on top. He eyed it groggily, snorted, and stuffed it under his arm while opening the fridge. A foul odor rolled out as the door opened, and he jumped back, waving his hand to divert it away from his face.

"Dean! _DEAN_!" he yelled. A muffled response came down the hallway from Dean's room. "Dammit! Why didn't you dump the spoiled milk?!" He pulled the carton out, poured it down the sink, started water running with some baking soda to kill the smell, and crunched the carton flat with one hand.

Dean poked his head in the kitchen.

"Whazzat? Spoiled milk? I bought new yesterday."

Sam turned to face him, smashed carton held out accusingly. "Dude. Really? I opened the fridge and it was as if a stink bomb went off."

Dean frowned, and stepped into the kitchen, grabbing the carton and peering at it. "Honest. Bought brand new yesterday. Threw out the bad stuff. Dude, d'you really think I'd leave it in the fridge?" He rolled his eyes, then lifted the smashed carton and took a cautious sniff, then averted his face with a disgusted grimace. "Whoa. Just like yesterday. Maybe it's a bad batch from the dairy."

Sam frowned and huffed. "Dammit, I was gonna make a smoothie this morning."

Dean shrugged and tossed the carton into the trash. "Well, guess you won't today. I'll get some more...maybe a different - "

"JOY TO THE WORLD, THE LORD HAS COME!"

It was if the Mormon Tabernacle Choir had invaded the bunker. The loud chorus of the song shook the bunker and assaulted their eardrums. Sam and Dean turned as one to look toward the common room, frozen in place for a moment, then strode forward, shoulder to shoulder, down the hall. " _What the hell?_!?" Dean shouted.

"Dunno!" Sam shouted back.

"LET EARTH...RECEIVE...HER KING!"

They burst into the common room and came to an abrupt halt, gaping at the scene before them.

There was a twelve-foot-tall inflatable snowman. There was a trio of wire mesh reindeer lit with thousands of twinkling white lights. There was a train set railroad woven around the tables, circling underneath them and between the legs. An electric train merrily chugged along, it's sound effects adding to the cacaphony.

"LET EVERY MAN REJOICE!"

" _Turn that bloody thing down!_ " howled Dean. Sam plunged to the speakers on the shelves, scrambling to locate the volume control.

"AND HEAVEN AND NATURE SING! AND HEAVEN - "

He found it, dialed it down, and the song continued at a much quieter level, " - sing! And heaven, and heaven, and nature sing!" Sam located the on-off switch and flipped it, and silence descended, except for the chugging of the train. He took a deep breath, whoofed it out, and dropped down into one of the chairs, eyes round. Dean pulled his bathrobe together, tied it aggressively, strode forward, and dropped into a chair across the table, eyeing Sam with deep suspicion.

They spoke at the same time:

"Dude. Not funny - "

"Dean. If you thought this was a good idea - "

They both snapped their mouths shut. Sam looked around the common room warily. Dean sank further into his seat, running a hand over his mouth and chin.

"So you didn't do this?" he asked Sam.

"Nope. And I take it you didn't, either?" Sam replied.

"Nope." They were quiet for a moment, eyes darting around the room. Sam realized he was still carrying the elf, so he got up, propped it back up on top of the liquor cabinet, and sat back down thoughtfully.

"So. If _you_ didn't do it, and _I_ didn't do it..." Sam's voice trailed off.

"...that means that something's rotten in the state of the bunker," Dean finished up for him.

The train chose that moment to blow its fake whistle.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean drummed his fingers on the table. Sam's lips were pursed, and he stared sightlessly at the inflatable snowman as he chewed over the situation. Finally, Dean stopped his drumming and said, "Okay, then. We have a - something - that is really into the Christmas spirit. Anything else?"

Sam focused his eyes on him and said hesitantly, "Um. I had what I thought was a really weird dream...but now I'm not so sure." He gave a quick outline of his encounter with the horse. Dean frowned at him.

"Soooo. Were you planning to tell me about this demon-horse-thing any time soon?"

Sam snorted. "Dude. I thought it was a dream. Are you asking me to tell you all about my dreams now?"

Dean opened his mouth, thought a second, closed it again, and finally said, "Okay. Point taken. Hmmm...Speaking of things we'd normally not blab about...I met this girl out by Baby last night. Kinda strange. Like she didn't know what beer was." He frowned, thinking about his encounter with Siobhan, and waved his hands wordlessly. "Dunno how to describe it. Just...odd." Sam wrinkled his forehead, puzzled, but shrugged.

The train, which had continued chugging along while they were talking, blew its whistle again. They both gave it irritated looks. Dean leaned over the track, waited until the train was in reach, snatched it off the track, turned the engine over, switched it off and dropped it on the floor beside the tracks.

Sam grabbed a pad of paper and began writing. "Okay. Let's see. We have a strange black horse, a mysterious woman, a collection of wild Christmas decorations appearing out of the blue - anything else?" He raised his eyebrows at Dean invitingly. Dean leaned back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and thought for a moment.

"Hmmm. Spoiled milk?" He sounded dubious. Sam chewed on the idea for a moment, then nodded and wrote it down.

"Yeah. I think it could be part of the whole thing. I guess?" He dropped his pen, re-read the list, and sighed.

"I dunno, Dean. This is - is like a - a hodgepodge of stuff. Nothing in common. I mean - well, dammit, what on earth could be doing these wildly different things?! And why now?" His voice was tinged with frustration. "Are we _sure_ it's all related?"

Dean just gave him a look.

"Okay, okay! It's all happening at once, so it _must_ be related somehow. But I haven't got a clue." He pushed his hair back out of his face and frowned at the snowman.

Dean tilted his chair back and stared at the ceiling, rocking the chair back and forth with one foot. "Only thing I can think of, Sammy, is that it all started up after you brought home the Christmas stuff."

Sam slewed around in his chair to look at the gaily decorated Christmas tree. His eyes traveled from there to the lights outlining the archways and the bookcases, then to the elf.

"Reminds me," he said. "Mind not moving the elf all the time? It kinda creeps me out, finding it in different places."

Dean dropped his chair back to the floor with a thump, leaned forward, frowned at Sam. "Dude. I thought _you_ were moving it." They both stared at the elf.

"Okay, then. Another thing for the list." Sam picked up the pen and added "elf/stuffed toy moves on its own". Then he threw the pen down on the table. "Dammit! None of this makes sense!"

Dean barked out a laugh. " _Nothing_ makes any sense in our life. Why should this be different?" He glared at the elf with narrowed eyes, then surged out of his chair, strode over, and grabbed it. "Okay, then. Only thing in the Christmas stuff that seems connected is this fucking elf dude." He held it up, shook it, and growled, "Time for you to say bye-bye, buddy!" With which, he marched out of the common room, up the stairs, and out the door. He reappeared moments later on the landing, brushing his hands together with a grin. "In the garbage. Maybe no more weird stuff?"

Sam peered up at him. "Maybe." He slid his laptop over, popped it open, and added, "But I'm still gonna see if I can dig something up."

Hours later, tired and grumpy from too many dead ends, he stood up, stretched, and shouted, "I'm out for some fresh air." Dean shouted back an acknowledgement from the kitchen. He had spent the day shuttling back and forth between the common room and his bedroom, carrying scissors and tape and wrapping paper, with ribbons trailing behind him, all of which had amused Sam greatly, especially the muffled curses drifting from his room.

He took the stairs up two at a time, and emerged from the bunker to a clear, crisp night, stars sparkling above him. He drew in a deep, relaxing breath, then started twisting his back, hands behind him, to get the kinks out. Rolling his head with his eyes closed, he froze when he felt warm breath on his neck and heard a loud whuffling snort. He slowly opened his eyes and slid them to the side to see...

A blazing red eye surrounded by sleek black hair. A horse's muzzle. Big white teeth. Looming above him. Very close.

The thing was _huge_.

 _You don't get rid of me that easily!_

The gigantic horse reared up, hooves pawing at the air. Then the head dipped down, further and further, down to his legs. And somehow, some way, he was tumbled onto the back of the horse, and it took off down the road, galloping wildly, and Sam was clutching the silky black mane with rigid hands, hanging on for dear life, his long hair flowing back behind him.

Back in the bunker, Dean sauntered into the common room with a sandwich and beer, then stopped dead. There, perched on top of the liquor cabinet, was the elf, long arms smugly folded in its lap, legs sprawling, and black plastic eyes glinting.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean glared at the elf. The elf looked blindly back, light shining off its happy plastic eyes. Dean worked his jaws for a moment, then strode forward, slammed his sandwich and beer down on the table, marched over to the elf and grabbed it.

"Salt and burn time for you, buddy boy!" he growled. He shook the elf for emphasis and headed to the kitchen. He dumped the elf in the sink, rummaged on the shelves for the salt, then liberally salted the toy. Then he yanked the anything drawer open, rifling through its contents for some lighter fluid. He doused the elf with a feral grin, muttering, "Let's see you get outta this, you sonovabitch!" He lit a kitchen match, dropped it onto the sodden mess, and stood back as it lit with a very satisfying "whooomph".

The flames engulfed the elf. Its legs and arms charred and curled up, the plastic eyes melted and dripped off the side of its face, the white fur on its jaunty cap turned black, then frizzy, then collapsed into ashes.

 _Then_ the smoke detector Sam had insisted on installing went off with an ear-piercing, high-pitched, continuous beep.

Dean jerked his head back, looked up at the damn thing, grabbed a chair and mounted it, muttering a series of vile curses. He flipped the switch, and, of course, it did nothing. He yanked off the cover and jerked out the batteries with a growl, and blessed silence fell. He jumped off the chair, slung it back toward the table, and marched back to the sink, stiff-legged, to oversee the end of the elf.

The flames died down, and Dean cautiously stirred the ashy mess in the sink with a spoon, regarding it suspiciously. Finally, satisfied, he grunted, ran some water to make sure the fire was completely out, and transferred the mess into a plastic grocery bag. When he dumped the bag into the trash, he danced a small, triumphant jig, pumped his fist, and hissed out, "Yeeesssss!"

Then he returned to the common room to his sandwich and beer, humming the Presidential March.

That was when the door to the landing slammed open and Sam staggered in, his normally well-kept hair a stringy, tangled mess, his eyes wild. He came to a halt at the railing, leaned down, and choked out, "Goddammit, Dean! Tossing it in the garbage didn't work!" He was panting.

Dean leaned back in his chair, placed his arms on his hips, and smiled a smug smile up at his brother. "I know. But I got that filthy SOB, salted and burned it, and it ain't coming back if it knows what's good for it!" His smile died down, and he asked, cautiously, "So...uh...just what exactly did our monster elf do to you?"

Sam opened his mouth, started to speak, closed his mouth, and ran his hands through his hair. Or tried to: both hands got caught in tangles. He struggled for a moment before finally being able to pull his hands free. "Agggghhhhhh!" Dean's lips twitched, but he smothered his laugh before it got out. What came out was more of a muffled snort-chuckle. Sam glared down at him.

"What did it _do_?! What did it _do_?! I just spent an hour bareback on a galloping black fiend! _Bareback_ , y'hear me?! The only way I stayed on was by practically pulling its mane out with my fingers! My balls hurt! And my head hurts from slamming into branches! And I have bits and pieces of dead leaves down my back, down my front, in my fucking _hair_!" He ended with a howl.

"Told ya you should cut it off," Dean snickered, unmoved. He was still basking in the glory of having done in the Creature From the Pit, and Sammy was, after all, relatively unharmed - or so it appeared - by his adventure.

Sam huffed at him and glared some more, then staggered down the steps gingerly and walked to the table with his legs slightly apart. He dropped into the chair across from Dean, winced, and shifted to try to get more comfortable. Dean watched him and snickered again.

"So you did our thing in...?" Sam finally said, his voice relieved. Dean nodded and took a bite from his sandwich.

"Yup," he mumbled around his mouthful. "Made a helluva mess." He chewed some more, swallowed, and took a swig of beer. Then he held it up questioningly. "Want some? Might help. I can get you some...?"

Sam shook his head. "Not enough for me after that...that...ride from hell. Scotch." He started up, whimpered, and sank back down, very slowly, in his chair. He made puppy dog eyes at his brother, and asked, "Uh. Could you...?"

Dean snorted. "Aw, poor baybee! Sure." Actually, he felt pretty damned sorry for Sam. The very thought of being tossed about bareback on a wild horse...well, his balls were trying to crawl up into his body now. He got up, headed to the liquor cabinet, and stopped in his tracks, wide-eyed.

Sam was concentrating on carefully pulling tangles apart, starting at the bottom of a lock of hair. When no scotch appeared before him, he looked up. "What's taking so long?" he groused. Dean didn't answer. "Hey! Dean! Scotch?"

Dean turned around, still wide-eyed. He pointed back to the liquor cabinet with a thumb. "Uh. Dude. We have a problem."

Sam blinked at him. Dean jerked his thumb urgently a few times, grimacing and nodding at it. Sam frowned, and Dean finally realized he was standing in the way and he couldn't see. He moved a few inches sideways and swept an arm to the cabinet.

Sam looked. His eyes widened, too, and he paled and moved his hands protectively over his groin.

There, sitting on the top, was the elf. Red and white and cheery, smiling blandly at them, without the slightest physical hint of having burned to bits.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam relaxed slightly after a moment or two. The elf, itself, was not the problem when it came to his nether regions - right? - it was what came with the elf. He slumped down in his chair, crossed his arms, and studied the floppy toy, frowning. Dean tiptoed back to his chair slewed it around so he could see the elf, not have his back to it, and sat. There was a long, considering silence.

"So salt and burn didn't work..." Sam finally said.

Dean shifted in his chair, gave Sam a sardonic look. "Ya think?"

"Not helpful, Dean..." Sam replied absently. "So what we need to do is identify what it is."

"Tried that already, Sammy boy," Dean said laconically. Sam waved an impatient hand.

"I'll try again. Maybe use a different phrase." He slid the laptop over in front of himself and flipped it open, not taking his eyes off the toy.

Dean grunted and ran a hand across the back of his head. "Y'know, maybe we shouldn't be...um...discussing this in front of...it?" He jerked his head at the elf.

Sam folded his lips and glared at both his brother and the toy. "It told me 'You don't get rid of me so easily', so obviously it already knows. And, frankly - " He shot a deadly look at the elf. " - After what it did to me tonight..." He gritted his teeth. "Dammit! I'm tickled pink to have it hearing me describe ripping it limb from limb, skewering it with silver, dissolving it in acid - "

Dean held up a hand and looked at him wide-eyed. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, dude! Get a grip!" Sam just growled. "Look. You do your research thing. But remember, it's supernatural. Doing those things - well, buddy, it just ain't gonna work. It may make you feel better, but - but - " He waved his hands in frustration, trying to figure out how to say it.

Sam groaned and dropped his head in his hands. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Satisfying but futile. Until we know what it is, and how to deal with it."

Dean waved his hand again, and said lamely, "Yeah. Yeah, that." He stood up. "Dude, it's really making me uncomfortable, sitting here talking about it while it's watching us with those beady eyes. Kitchen. Now." Sam started to protest, but then shrugged, flipped the laptop closed, and he trooped out of the common room after Dean. When they got to the kitchen, Dean grabbed a pair of beers from the fridge, popped one open, handed the other to Sam, and sat down at the kitchen table with a sigh. Sam eyed his beer sadly, sighed too, and sat down.

"I really wanted scotch," he muttered, slowly removing the cap.

"Deal with it. I wasn't going to get anything out of there, not with that smug elf sitting right on top!" Sam peered at him, flipped up an eyebrow, and nodded agreement. "And, dammit, I just feel better here. No eavesdropping. So pop open that computer and get to work!" He leaned back and slugged down some beer, eyeing his brother sternly.

Sam nodded again, and did as requested.

A few minutes later, he sat up straight and leaned forward to peer at the screen more closely. "Hunh."

"Whazzat? 'Hunh'? Found something already, when you couldn't before after hours of searching?" Dean was skeptical.

"Changed 'supernatural' to 'magical'. First hit. 'Taming the Pooka: Celtic Tales of the Trickster Fairy'." Dean sat up, suddenly very interested.

"Okay, those are two words I really don't want to hear - 'Trickster' and 'Fairy'." Sam shushed him with an impatient hand.

"Pooka. Hmmm." He started typing. "Okay. Listen to this. 'A creature of Irish folklore'...'bringers both of good and bad fortune'...'said to be shapechangers which could take the appearance of black horses' - " He gave Dean a significant look, then went on, "'They may also take a human form, which includes animal features, such as ears or a tail'..." Dean frowned.

"Nope, nothing like that from Siobhan...though, I s'pose she could have had animal ears under all that hair..." He drifted off, gazing at the wall. After a moment, he snapped his eyes back to Sam. "So, okay, a pooka. Silly-ass name. What the hell do we do to get rid of it?!"

"Um. Nothing here. Lemme check some other things." He tapped away at the keyboard for a moment. "Ugh."

"'Ugh'? I don't like the sound of that. Can't we just pour some salt in front of it, make it count the grains? If it's a fairy? Worked before." Sam frowned thoughtfully and pushed his hair out of his face.

"Wouldn't that have worked during the salt and burn? If it was going to, I mean. I think that's out. So far, though, I'm not finding anything specific, dammit. Aside from placating it with offerings from the harvest." He fell silent, looking glumly at Dean.

"Offerings from the harvest. What, give it some veggies and flour?" Dean snorted. "Besides, that's 'placating', not 'getting rid of'. I want that thing _out of here_!" he shouted in frustration. He stood up, shoved his chair back roughly, and started pacing the kitchen. "Wild horse rides...giant inflatable snowmen...the fucking Mormon Tabernacle Choir!" He stopped, whirled to face Sam, and jabbed a finger at him. "And y'know what? This is just...just..." He closed his eyes, worked his jaw, then popped them open again. "Dammit, man. If we had found one damned candy wrapper - _one_! - you know what the hell I'd be thinking, right this instant." He narrowed his hazel eyes at his brother.

Sam chewed his lips. "Yeah. But he's dead. Gabriel. Right? He never came back from facing Lucifer. And his cameo in that porn CD - he _said_ if we were watching it, it meant he was dead. Right?"

Dean ground his jaw some more. "Riiight. But this sure as hell has his fingerprints all over it." He darted his eyes suspiciously back and forth from one side of the kitchen to the other, then snorted, braced himself, and called out, "Gabriel, you sneaky sonovabitch! You show your archangelic ass right this instant, dammit!"

No short, mischievous, golden-brown-haired archangel appeared.

However...

...the elf popped into existence in the middle of the kitchen table, black plastic eyes gleaming.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam gaped at the elf. Dean started toward it with an inarticulate growl, hand reaching out, only to stop when a feast appeared on the table. A spiral sliced ham on a silver platter. Bourbon and brown sugar sweet potatoes in a dainty china serving bowl. A basket of delicately browned dinner rolls. Salad, a boat of dressing beside it. Tray of sliced veggies, complete with a heap of black olives.

The aroma was overwhelming, and Dean started to salivate. Without thinking, he reached for the black olives, prepared to pop one on the end of each finger and nibble them off. Sam thrust an arm before him, stopping him, eyeing the banquet with suspicion.

"Stop. Don't eat anything. Remember what fairy food is supposed to do to you."

Dean whimpered slightly. Aside from the fucking elf-creature - pooka? - the whole spread looked and smelled amazing. "Dude!" he pleaded. "Look! There's even horseradish sauce! And hot mustard! And _pie_!" Yes. There was pie. It was almost too much for a grown man to handle, and Dean whimpered again.

"Dean. Stop drooling and think. We just identify this thing, and suddenly a feast appears? I don't think so." Sam folded his arms and divided his attention between the elf, the feast, and his tormented brother. Dean slumped, eyes darting to the food again. Then he ran a hand over his chin, sighed, and stepped back, closing his eyes.

"Oh, _come_ _ **on**_!" The irritated voice was _very_ familiar.

A short, golden-brown haired man with a mischievous expression appeared in place of the elf, hands folded in his lap and legs bumping up against various dishes. He grinned widely, jumped off the table, and struck a pose. With jazz hands. "Ta-daaaa! Sam and Dean Winchester, this...is... _your life!_ " The voice boomed out like a voice announcer on a game show. Black T-shirt, olive drab jacket, Adidas sneakers, wavy hair, smirk, obnoxious over-acting, now swaggering around the room - oh, yes, they knew him. "Boys! Is _this_ the kind of thanks I get for providing entertainment _and_ a friggin' _gorgeous_ Christmas dinner? - If I do say so myself, and I do! - Showing up like the proverbial Prodigal Son?" He stopped by Dean, leaned in to him sideways, and asked in a stage whisper, "Didja miss me?" He wagged his eyebrows and nudged him in the side with an elbow.

Dean drew his head back, gave him a sour look, and said, baldly, "No."

Sam folded his arms again. "Gabriel," was all he said in a flat voice.

"Boys! _Damn_! Where's my welcome home?" He stepped back from Dean and posed again, arms spread wide, smirking.

It was too much for Sam, who snarled and started advancing on the archangel. "You - _you_ \- "

Gabriel darted behind Dean, and popped his head up over his shoulder, eyes bright and teasing. "Sammy! What? Didn't you _like_ my wild ride?!"

Sam growled and reached around Dean. Gabriel sidled away, still keeping Dean between them, poking his head around Dean's side. "Hunh. Guess not. And the choir? The snowman? Don't you two have any - any - joy and mirth? You two are _way_ too uptight. _Relax_ a little!"

" _Relax_ \- ?! I'll 'relax' you, you - " Sam choked out. Dean put out his arm, holding Sam back.

"Dude. Chill. It's not gonna get you anywhere except more angry." He locked eyes with Sam, who huffed, and pushed, then finally calmed a bit and stepped back. Dean nodded at him in approval, then transferred his gaze to the short archangel. "Now. Gabriel. What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Gabriel stopped grinning. "Um. Well." His shoulders slumped a bit. He disappeared, and reappeared in a chair at the table. He gestured grandly at the display. "C'mon, c'mon, sit down, enjoy the food. It's not gonna bite you!" He glinted at Sam with a tiny, sly smile. "Not fairy food, I promise, Sammy! C'mon, sit down, eat!" After a moment filled with fraught, irritated silence, the boys moved forward and joined him at the table. Creamy white china dishes filled to overflowing appeared before them both. Gabriel was already eating.

"You were saying...?" Dean invited him to elaborate. He looked at the plate, mouth watering, and dug in.

"Mmph," Gabriel muttered around a mouthful. He swallowed, and continued, "Well. I was lonely. It's Christmas, for Pop's sake! Here, have some wine." A delicate crystal wine glass appeared by each plate, filled to the brim. "So, yeah, Christmas. Baby bro's birthday - well, not really, but good enough, y'know. Time for families to get together? Catch up? Find out what everyone's been doing? Y'know, Pops, Auntie Amara, big bro Luci..." His bright eyes darted between the boys.

Sam toyed with his fork, turning it over and over, frowning at it. "Look. Gabriel. Why should we know anything about what God is doing? Or Lucifer?" He slanted a glance at the archangel.

Gabriel grinned slyly at him. "Hey, Sam, _you're_ the one with the visions, right? So what's Pops saying to you? Gotta say, though, I'm not too sure it _is_ Pops, if y'catch my drift..." He pursed his lips, wagged his eyebrows again. Dean looked at Sam significantly, as if to say, "See? I'm not the only one!" Sam frowned at him, then transferred his frown to Gabriel.

"Dude. There was a fucking _burning bush_." His voice made it final. Gabriel shrugged and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, well, everyone's heard _that_ story!" Gabriel said skeptically. He peered from one to the other. Both brothers stolidly ate, ignoring him. He pouted. Then he sighed, slumped in his chair, stretched out his legs. "But really. I...um...missed you guys," he said reluctantly. "You make life interesting. It's been _boring_ hiding away, pretending to be dead. Everyone believed it!" He sounded aggrieved. "Except for friggin' Metatron, the dweeb! Roped me into playing a bit part in his grand scheme for Cassie. Speaking of which - " He craned his head around. "Where is Cas? Why didn't _he_ get to enjoy my happy holidays charade?" Dean shrugged, glaring down at his food. Sam made urgent shushing motions. Gabriel's eyebrows rose and he grimaced at Dean.

"Aw! Don't tell me you had a fight?!"

Dean's eyes flicked up, and he said, tightly, "Drop it, dude."

Gabriel grinned. "Well, damn! _That's_ no good!" His eyes gleamed. He lifted his hand, snapped, and Cas appeared in the middle of the kitchen, black hair swirling in all directions, sapphire eyes blinking, tie askew, and trenchcoat drooping.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel froze.

"Dean." He was expressionless, lips folded together tightly. "What am I doing here?" Dean's face was dark and clouded with a frown. Cas turned his head stiffly away, glanced around the kitchen. He nodded to Sam, was about to say something, then stopped dead at the sight of Gabriel.

"Gabriel?!" His voice rose with shock, and his vivid blue eyes widened. " _Gabriel_?!"

Gabriel simpered. "Hey, bro! Long time no see!"

Cas strode forward with a thunderous frown, grabbed Gabriel by the shoulders, and started shaking him. "You - you - Argh!"

"Whoa, bro! Easy on the fabric there! Yeah, me, me, me!" He stepped back out of Cas's grip and struck a pose, again with arms akimbo and jazz hands. "You don't look happy to see me! Why not? Long lost older brother, thought dead - c'mon, Cassie, admit it! You're overcome with joy!" Cas just growled and pointedly turned his back on him. The problem was that this had him facing Dean, which he seemed equally irritated by. He clenched his fists, drew a deep breath, and turned back to Gabriel.

"So you actually _were_ alive when Metatron was toying with me," he gritted out.

"Hells _yeah_! Damn, Cassie, I thought I was pretty friggin' clear! Don't tell me you thought I was some Metadouche-y illusion?!" He sighed theatrically and shook his head. "And there I was, trying to talk you into leading the Holy Host. Damn. But you did it! Stopped the douchebag! I gotta admit, bro, I was kinda proud of you there." He arched his eyebrows, then grimaced and added, "Kinda. Don't get a swollen head." He stepped forward, slid an arm around Cas's waist, and marched him toward Dean. "Now, I heard there's some sort of kerfuffle between you two, so I brought you here to kiss and make up. What's going on? I thought you two were besties!" He stopped, and pushed Castiel forward.

Cas dug his heels in, turned a grim face to Gabriel. "It was made quite clear to me that I was no longer welcome here."

Dean flushed, opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Sam looked from him to Cas, puzzled. "Was _that_ what it was all about?! Dean. What the hell? Cas was still recovering from Rowena's rabid-dog spell - why on earth would you kick him out?!"

Gabriel peered at him, too, frowning. "Yeah. What the hell, Deano?"

Dean clenched his fists, smoldered for a moment, then broke. He stepped forward and poked Cas in the chest, working his jaw. "You! You were - were - moldering here! You were terrified to leave the bunker! You were just wasting away - moping! All you did was watch Netflix! And you. Wouldn't. Stop!" He stepped closer and poked him again. "Dude! You _needed_ to get out! Back into the world! And every damned time we invited you on a hunt - hell, even just to go out to Joe's Bar for pizza! - you just - just - wilted like a damned flower and wouldn't even walk out the fucking door! I couldn't stand it! And there sure as hell aren't any damned therapists for angels with PTSD! I had that fight with you and booted you out because - because - _goddammit,_ Cas! It was the only thing I could think of!"

By the end of his tirade, one human and two angels were staring at him with their jaws dropped. It was the longest piece of chick-flick talk Sam had ever heard from his brother, and he was dumbfounded. Cas couldn't speak.

Gabriel, however...

"Helllloooooo, Dr. Phil! _Damn_!" He whistled, long and slow and admiring. "Maybe I should dump you in a TV talk show - "

Dean whirled around and jabbed a deadly finger at him. "Don't. You. Dare." he growled. At the same time, Cas said, warningly, "Gabriel..." Gabriel's eyebrows skyrocketed, and he held up his hands.

"Whoa! Touchy, touchy. Okay, no TV shows. Sheesh. You guys are a buncha damned sticks in the mud. No sense of adventure." He rolled his eyes dramatically. Then he darted a bright glance from Dean to Cas. "So. You guys copacetic now? Everything back to normal?"

Dean locked eyes with Cas, and tilted an inquiring eyebrow. Cas blinked, and said, softly, "You were...worried about me?" He sounded astonished.

Dean closed his eyes, and said simply, "Dude. Yes." He opened them again, and growled, "Don't you go freaking out on me like that again. Got me?" Cas nodded.

Then Dean seemed to realize that, for once, _he_ was the one violating norms of personal space with Cas, and he stepped back abruptly. "Good." He nodded once, decisively.

Gabriel grinned broadly, dusted his hands off, and said, "Okay! Now that _that_ little drama is out of the way...Guests? Want some guests? I've got some ideas - ". He wagged his eyebrows at them.

Three heads turned to him, and three voices spoke as one. " _NO_!" He drew back, injured.

" _What_?! It's like you boys don't trust me!" Three faces gave him the same tight-lipped, repressive look. He waved his hands wildly. "Guys! I thought you'd _like_ having some guests from the Heavenly Realm! And I worked so hard to spring them for a day!" He shook his head, frowned, and snapped his fingers.

The kitchen was suddenly very crowded. An array of men and women were elbowing each other, voices raised. "Dean!" "Sam!" "Boys, when did y'all get so damned _old_?!" "Omigod omigod omigod! It's like Bilbo's birthday!"

Then one gruff voice rose above them all. "Will all you damned idjits just simmer down! Can't you see they're totally gobsmacked?! God's sake, give 'em a chance to take it all in, why doncha?" Bobby moved forward, ancient baseball cap still perched on his head. He nodded to them. "Well, boys. Don't just stand there. Beer and scotch!" He put a hand on Sam and Dean's shoulders, roughly pulled them close, and muttered, "Damn! It's good to see you two!"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Many thanks to K Hanna Korossy, who kindly let me know that I had called Bobby "Billy" in my previous chapter, which was the most bone-headed mistake! Thanks again, K Hanna!**

Bobby pulled first one, then the other, into a bone-crushing hug. "So what the hell is this about The Darkness I'm hearin' about? Gone and started another end-of-the-world scene, have ya? Idjits." Sam started to explain, but Dean's attention was yanked away. Many of the people here - long dead and gone - he had already had a chance to see again, either as ghosts or during one of his sojourns in heaven. But there, butting a head full of dark red curls into Castiel's chest with rough affection, was the one whose loss was the most recent, and heaviest.

The one who he and Sam had decorated the bunker for.

The one whose death had been the most senseless, in a litany of senseless deaths.

He found himself walking hesitantly toward her. Cas, whose head had been snuggled down on top of hers, glanced up and caught his eyes. He gave Dean a faint smile, moved his hands to Charlie's shoulders, and said, "Someone would like to see you," while giving her a little push in Dean's direction.

They both hesitated, then she ran to him,mthrew her arms around him, and squeezed as hard as she could. "Oh! _You_!" she muttered into his flannel shirt. He found himself crushing her fiercely in return, head leaning on hers. He fought to keep the tears in, rocking her back and forth in his arms.

"Charlie..." was all he could say, over and over. Finally, he drew in a long, shuddering breath, dropped a kiss on her head, and said, roughly, "Damn. Kiddo, it's good to see you. I'm sorry, so sorry - " His breath hitched, as he tried to finish what he was saying, how horribly sorry and guilty he felt about not getting there in time, not protecting her, finding her slaughtered like a pig in that motel room bathtub. A lingering, searing flash of anger and hatred for the ones who had killed her raced through him, but was diverted when she punched him lightly in the arm, tossed her curls back, and looked up at him with tears sparkling in her eyes.

"Hey. Not your fault. _Not_ your fault. I was being stupid, just like one of those darned damsels in distress - I should have _known_ better than to go running off like that - it's always idiotic to do that, like being the one who goes into the haunted house for her buddies instead of being smart and waiting for friends to go with her - " She ran out of breath. He smiled softly, laid a finger across her lips.

"Shhh. Stop. Don't blame yourself, either, kiddo. All past. I was scaring everyone, you were just trying to help - "

"And look what it got us! _Honestly_ , you two can't catch a break - The Darkness?! Whoa! We probably shoulda stayed away from that darned book!" She looked over his shoulder, and, if possible, her grin got even wider. "Sam!" And she was peeling away from him, flinging herself into Sam's arms, being picked up and whirled around by him. Unlike Dean, Sam wasn't afraid to show he was crying. Then he dropped her on her feet, pulled her tighter into his arms, kissed her head, and, like Dean, rocked her back and forth, chanting, "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie..."

The rest of the evening was a whirl of disconnected, happy vignettes for the both of them. Bobby arguing life in the Veil with Kevin. Ellen giving them hell for not taking care of themselves. Jo flirting with Dean. Rufus and Bobby drinking scotch and recounting tales of old hunts. Frank cornering people and muttering about government conspiracies. Ash and Charlie and Frank deep in computer hacking talk. Everyone eating, and drinking, and occasionally bursting out into Christmas carols, some singing well, others off-key.

Gabriel stood back during most of it, leaning against a wall, arms folded, a smug look on his face. Late in the evening, Sam and Dean drifted over to him, looking out over the happy crowd, and leaned on the wall beside him, one on either side, echoing his folded arms. The three were silent for a while. Then Gabriel murmured, with a tiny smile, "So. Were the bruised balls worth it, Sammy-boy?" He slid a glance up at him.

Sam ran his hands through his hair, pushing it off his face, and smiled quietly. "Guess so. This once, mind you! Don't make a fucking habit of it!"

"Heh. Y'should've seen your face! _Damn_! That was fun! Hoo boy!" Gabriel chuckled. Sam slanted a repressive look his way.

"Gotta admit, you done good, Gabriel. A good shindig. Nice to see everyone..." Dean's voice trailed off as his eyes wandered from one familiar, loved face to another. He and Dean ended their survey of the crowd focused on one dark red head in particular. Sam sighed.

Gabriel reached up and draped an arm over each of their shoulders. "Well. Don't tell anyone I'm a nice guy, after all."

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. "Like that's gonna happen, right!" Gabriel smirked absently in reply, squeezing their shoulders gently.

"Anyway. Merry Christmas, you bumbling idiots. I'll be seeing you!" He vanished.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, shrugged, and started back toward the crowd of their long-dead friends. Sam caught Dean's elbow, stopped him. "Hey. Dean. Merry Christmas."

Dean looked at him, rolled his eyes, and smiled wryly. "Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas, bro. Now, enough of this shit. Let's go have some more drinks!"

 **~~finis~~**

 **A/N: Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and Happy Holidays to all! May your days be filled with laughter, joy, and loved ones.**


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